The Peat Banks

Walking home, the hauls of peat make glimmeron the burn. Underside of ground collectsthe loosened light of simmer dim, the slimprofits of dusk. Sun-pursed dry earth makes fleckson water forged in fragile replica. Paredback from sunken ground, the peat achievesthe paler murk of land, bestowed to barethe slow mint of evening in each cleave.

I hold a small, damp coin within my palm.Pressed thick with filth, I scour it with thumbSwelled up in its etchings, its rutted balmOf words stacked up by touch. Its sheen long-numbed,My dim totem sullies the walk home,Distant from the gold stored wanton in the gloam.